


Shadows in the Blood Redux

by ZorialDiamond



Series: The Ivanov Curse [1]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Gen, Gore, Horror, Psychological Horror, Speculative, exposed organs, fun with ocs, headcanons ahoy, lots of darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZorialDiamond/pseuds/ZorialDiamond
Summary: The Fourth Age is one of many tales untold. Here is one tragedy among many.





	Shadows in the Blood Redux

**Author's Note:**

> Wheee, this is a major fic rewrite! And it's one of my scarier ones, brought out in that HD Final Mix glory (can you tell I've been playing Kingdom Hearts games lately?) 
> 
> Same general premise as the last one, backstory of an OC with plenty of headcanons and spoopy stuff mixed in, only with much more detail due to much more thought into them and getting better writing skills. I want to maintain the skills that got me into Ghost Stories of Gielinor back in 2017 and then some!
> 
> Anyhow, whether you've read the previous version of this tale or not, enjoy! (I'm really proud of this one).
> 
> (S.D.G.)

_Some time in the early 4th Age..._

 

He wished he didn’t feel used to this in any respect. It was wrong. Warped. Twisted. It made him want to retch. No, this time it was different.

Nimble, trained fingers fidgeted with tousled dark locks. Dark, slim eyes went wide at the sight, scattered haphazardly on the swampy soils. It took some time to discern it from the new moon’s lacking light and shadows cast from the sparse dead wood.

The same leather armor they’d all scavenged, the same tattered cloak like the one he wore, now torn and sullied with blood. A makeshift shortsword forged from the carcass of the Araxytes, just out of reach of an arm chewed by razor like teeth. Slightly greyed hair partially covering eyes frozen in terror. A gaping hole where his heart used to be, the heart that cared so much. He dared not look at the rest. There was already enough to cause his fist to tighten and teeth to grit.

“Saradomin damn it...Sebastian is dead…”  he rasped in a thin yet thoughtful voice, hanging his head to look at the ground directly below him.

Carrying his corpse back might alert the monster stalking them to their location, much as he would like to give him a proper burial. He carefully removed the shortsword and turned it over in his hands; at least it was something they could remember him by. He looked up at the sky; only a sliver of a fading moon greeted him. Slowly, slowly, his feet trod in the swamps as he listlessly made his way to camp. Yet no precaution they could think of taking seemed to calm the anxiety in his mind that for weeks, told him that eyes were fixed on them anyhow.

Moving camp was one of those precautions. A regular procedure, to keep their quarry from following them too closely. At least in the past. He gazed at a fire kept alight only by embers, white-red brush exhaling sparks and smoke into the seemingly perpetual night. Anastasia and Simon were asleep, the former smiling as if from a good dream; Markus was keeping watch. Another set of tents a few meters away, Mia and Nigel. A few more paces away, Gabriel, his eyes always lights in the darkness.

His face fell somewhat. There were more, though, and more in the past. Who knew how much longer the grace Saradomin granted them would last.

But the man who would most want to know of the recent casualty, Samuel, was warming himself by the fire. He turned his way, dark beard and hair unkempt and slightly sweat-drenched, rounded and weathered face even more creased than usual.

“Silvarius. You’ve returned,” he remarked. “What news do you bring?”

“Sebastian is dead,” he mourned. “Same manner as the others. Mangled. Brutally. His...his heart was even ripped out,” he said, between clenched teeth and with a hand reaching for his bow.

“Gods, no,” Samuel cringed a bit from the image in his mind. “Picking us off one by one...this is no mere savage of instinct we are dealing with.”

“Toying with us...perhaps it even knows where we are and is intent on our destruction,” Silvarius speculated, glancing down at the dying fire. His eyebrows, sharp as his vision and arm, furrowed. Now his hand was tightening its grip.

“Stay your weapon,” Samuel admonished in a stern tone, noticing the younger man’s zeal. “If this foe is as intelligent as you believe it to be, a careless attack might be exactly what it wants.” Soon, Sebastian was gripping Silvarius’s shoulder and forcing his hand off his recurve. “Sebastian was one of the wisest among us, and you saw for yourself the grisly fate he suffered.”

“I KNOW, Samuel,” he replied between teeth still grit, attempting to wrench his hand free.

“I am serious. Heed wisdom. Yes, you were one of the few to fell the Araxyte Queen herself, but you were not alone in that effort. You should know better than any of us to call on the help of another.” Now the elder held both of the archer’s hands in a strong grip.

“Except whenever we have scouted in teams, it has evaded us,” Silvarius objected, continuing to struggle. “The way I see it, we will continue to be hunted anyhow. Picked off one by one. Like Victor. Like Amelia. Like Andrew.”

“I know. Do you think it does not pain me as well?” he challenged, the tiredness of soul peeking through like the moonlight in the Morytanian clouds. “I feel their loss deeply. They would not wish us to die in vain, even more the ones still living.” He loosened his grip. “Or did you not consider how Anastasia might feel if you were to be the next victim?”

He stepped away, the tension dissipating, his face softening. As he took a deep breath, he felt it drop like swamp mud off his cloak. He glanced towards the tent, seeing her sharp face, the ever tousled dark curls, the keen agile hands. “You...you are right.”

“Silvarius, I've regarded our little band like my own flesh and blood for a long time. You are no exception. Your eye is true and your heart is pure. We need both of those things, especially in a time like this.” His face softened, and he patted the younger man on the shoulder, who nodded. “Rest now; your god knows you’ll need it.”

He knew all too well that sleep would not be afforded to him. No, he’d slept in worse conditions, that wasn’t it. It was the shadow, the spectre that loomed over them. Perhaps he’d been able to forget, let himself forget to carry on for a time. But no.

Yet….Samuel would catch him were he to sneak out, he knew. Keen were his eyes, but the elder’s eyes were wiser. Perhaps it was that imagined glare that at least had him lay on his makeshift bed of crushed reeds.

 

But with one eye open.

 

One eye open towards the darkness. The tangled and knotted trees. The skittering of insects and leeches that somehow grew great on the land’s corruption. He glanced outside the tent. The elder was still there, keeping watch. One hand was still eager to grip his recurve, curling around it before shying away again. Sometimes he tried to brush away the paranoia that the darkness had been gazing back into him.

After what felt like an eternity of watching nothing but the black sky, a shadow caught his eye. Not something particularly noteworthy, especially in the darkness, but this one was different. Shadows moving were not unusual. Shadows moving independent of any source casting them were another matter entirely. That was the thought that occupied his mind as his body moved and inclined towards the marshy forest outside before his mind could catch up.

He snapped back to attention when he felt a small gash be carved into his arm by a bladed object that suddenly flew by. He bit his lip and turned in the direction of the attack. For a split second, he thought he saw a tall and lanky humanoid of some kind dart into the trees. If it was a vampyre, it was certainly the strangest one he’d ever seen.

He crouched down, then scanning his surroundings. He swore he heard a slight peal of laughter that chilled his bones. He nocked an arrow.

_It’s here, I am certain. Mocking us. Mocking me._

 

_No more._

 

Narrowed eyes. A rustle. An shot fired true. An annoyed, high pitched grunt in response as it made its mark. He smirked a bit. A bit of pride soon to be snuffed out as a physical feeling of unease and dread seemed to sink into the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he should have heeded it before it was too late.

The shadows shifted. The laughter echoed around. Small trees were cut down with a rain of splinters as the whirling blades came one right after another in seemingly impossible succession. A hop to the one spot of unmired ground. His hopes of shooting from cover were soon decimated as a swath of trees now stood like a scattered box of broken toothpicks.

Even the hordes of spiders once left at least some opening for attack. They swarmed, but they were predictable. He was forced to dance to the rhythm whose conductor seemed to be both brilliant and mad. And it was a rhythm that if he failed to keep, he would die. Not even the laughter helped him find it, as it suffused his ears like auditory smoke.

No matter. A prayer in his mind and knot in his throat, he drew the bow again, and let fly at a shifting shadow. Another grunt. For a moment, the assault stopped, and he caught a momentary look at his assailant, still veiled by the darkness. Another whirlwind of death, this time dodged. No pauses. Another arrow, knocked true. A window, paid for with a gash across the arm. A taunting grunt and a stifled scream. Hops, leaps, kicking up mud and deadwood and scattering blood. Precious as diamonds were the briefest of respites, and one moment time seemed to slow.

 

If he didn’t use it now, he did not see much else of a chance. He reached to the pouch he concealed on the back of his belt. The stones, a rare find from the cache of a war both near and far away. One of the few among them who had an affinity. He took them in his hands, the stones melting into fiery energy, lighting up the immense darkness of the moonless Morytanian night.

 

“You creature of darkness...I will DESTROY you!” he proclaimed as he thrust his right hand forward with forcefulness, a small inferno raging through the shadows and striking some brush. The flames began to lick away at the fetid water and scattered wood, an anguished series of yelps coming from the general vicinity as Silvarius followed it with several arrows. Not even werewolves would be holding up well after an assault like that.

But whatever this was...this was no werewolf, and no silhouette was seen as the flames died down. He couldn’t show it, but horror gripped his soul in a stranglehold.

A terrible grinding sound assaulted his eardrums.

“Ahehehe...Hunter, you are very much welcome to try.” The high, reedy voice saying anything resembling words somehow didn’t surprise him, but it left him frozen in foolish contemplation as a knife embedded itself in his back. He stumbled, cringing as the blade itself seemed to burn with some kind of acid. He let out a mild scream, stumbling, trying to keep his footing as his vision blurred.

He couldn’t lose. Not here. Not now. Gritting his teeth, he fired again. And again, with feeling, as the shadows seemed to rake claws into his flesh(whether real or a trick of his mind, he could not discern at that moment). His muscles knotted and cramped, burning with pain. For just a bit longer, he compelled what felt like lead filled limbs to move.

 

Until they couldn’t anymore.

 

Until his grip on his bow loosened.

 

Until the fire was finally swallowed up by the swamp.

 

Until despite everything, he could do nothing.

 

They fell. They all fell. And now he joined them, falling into the swamp’s embrace. Blank as the black sky was his mind, and with no moon there was no way to discern the passing of time. He could see his trusted recurve; yet it might as well have been in another world entirely, as now the foot of the beast held it fast. Fear compelled the blankness to be filled. Mangled faces. Mutilated bodies, wholly desecrated and chewed, disappearing as the darkness fell upon them.

He tried to crawl away as he felt the shadow loom darker over him too, but the mud seemed to be a makeshift prison. His blood mingled with the stagnant swamp water.

 

 _So...this is how I die,_ he thought to himself. _Samuel, why didn’t I listen to you…_

 

Silence.

 

_At least I can go to the rest of the fallen now._

 

He closed his eyes and braced himself. He could imagine his own flesh being ripped apart further, yet he realized that nothing happened. The monster surprised him.

Yet, the anxiety did not abate. It was as if his terror, his suffering were sweet nectar. Is this how the others died? Not in a valiant last charge, but fearing for their lives?

 

A pull at the back of his neck. A hand, now holding that neck fast, claws sinking slightly into his skin. An unadvised opening of his eyes. And the visage of his tormentor greeted him; no face of flesh, but a an eerie mask of bone white.

 

And then the mask _opened,_ and that damned thin, high, reedy voice issued forth.

 

“Ahehehehehe...I found you at last.” The teeth, the needle like teeth in that rictus then remained.

 

Silence. He tried to compel his lips to open, his lungs to breathe, yet they did not obey. He could not tell if the chill was from his hair standing on end or the cold mud.

 

“It seems your boasts have dried up, hunter. So I shall praise you as you deserve; never have I met one who challenged me as you did.” Another unstable peal of laughter.

 

One that oddly sounded...proud.

 

It leaned in closer. He could catch glimpses of a pointed tongue snaking out from between the teeth. He cringed from a nauseating mix of charred and rotting flesh from its breath. Finally, that seemed to loosen Silvarius’s own jaws.

  
“W...why…” he choked out, wriggling in the beast’s grasp. Yet the claws just sunk more into his neck.

 

“Because you have something the others did not.” The smile grew wider, the piercing laughter louder until it seemed to fill his bones. “Tell me, what is your name?”

 

“S...Silvarius.” He wheezed out. For a moment, the grip loosened, and held loose. Not like it mattered much anyhow when he couldn’t move his limbs.

 

“Silvarius, child”. He chuckled a bit, as if to say, ‘how cute’. “It may be mere decades after a cataclysmic war, but there are still enough souls in Gielinor to warrant more than just one name.” Something about that smile deepened in a way Silvarius could only guess at, but didn’t want to.

 

“And just...why would that matter,” the hunter rasped, trying to look away. “You’ve won. You have your prey. What else could an abomination like you want?”

 

“Do you think I was always like this?” he mused. Of course, there was no reason for Silvarius to think otherwise, and he knew that full well. “Many of the vampyres were once men. So indeed, was I.”

 

Silvarius didn’t say anything, seeming to try and ignore him with what little he had left.

 

“And as you might suspect, I too have a name. Two, in fact.” A chuckle, seemingly amused and fulfilled at the same time. “It is Gregorovic. Gregorovic Ivanov.”

 

Every muscle in the hunter’s body tensed up as a small gasp escaped his fading lungs and his teeth gritted so hard they threatened to crack. It was only then that it hit him that it wasn’t the sort of question asked by someone probing for information.

 

“I can see it on your face, child. Say it,” the monster insisted, as the clawlike hand tightened around his throat.

 

“Ivanov. Silvarius Ivanov,” he rasped out in defeat.

 

“Ahehehe. Yes, indeed, you have that name.” Now he could _feel_ the chuckle go through the form of the one who held him fast. “And with that name, a certain blood, my son. Descendant, to be more precise.”

 

“Y-you’re insane…” Silvarius retorted with strained words. He didn’t want to believe it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Yet still, he felt the urge to crawl away. He slammed his eyes shut. Grit his teeth. No, he spouted madness. Lying. Despite the lack of some features, somehow he could tell that was the face of a creature that took pleasure in others’ pain.

 

“Were it not for that grace, you would be sustenance like all the rest. But, I have better things in mind for you.” Now the chilling laughter seemed to ring with an air of exultation.

 

Silvarius shivered. They suspected werewolves. Perhaps some particularly starved feral vampyres or the work of ghouls. Frozen. Paralyzed. Like in a nightmare. Yes, this was a nightmare.

 

Except in nightmares, his flesh didn’t feel like it was burning with acid. His eyes fluttered open. The shadows of the night were not that dark, even under a new moon. No, this...Gregorovic...was surrounded with it. Commanded it. All else seemed to fade away. He wished he hadn’t glanced at his hands. Burning, twisting, warping, as the ethereal vapors surrounded them.

 

“Indeed, you are more than worthy for the ranks of my master’s forces, Silvarius. _Join me._ **_Embrace the darkness_ ** .” The monster’s voice seemed to quiver with the joy of grand opportunity, but all Silvarius heard was a prison sentence.

   
  
“And... what if...I refuse?” he rasped, as his voice gave out. The foul magic surrounded, invaded, seeped into him. The world faded before him, the taunting mask his last sight in the realm of the living.

 

Laughter.

 

“ _It was never your choice to make_.”

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it! So much has changed in the time since I first wrote this, and it's given me more confidence that I can rework more of my stuff. Thank you so much to everyone who's listened to my rambles on this sadboi and offered feedback on the original. You all went into making this great. :D
> 
> (I am still keeping up the link to the original for posterity's sake, but this fic will take its place at the start of the Ivanov Curse.)
> 
> [P.S: Silvarius has a voiceclaim now! (Spoilers for FNAF: Sister Location if you care even though it's 2 years old) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_kqBAHAPsY]


End file.
